Where Nightmares End, Where Dreams Begin
by Bitter Shadow
Summary: John Watson doesn't cry, he's a soldier. But sometimes pain overtakes your mind, and more importantly, your heart. Takes place directly after the season two finale. So spoilers aplenty if you haven't see it! I don't own Sherlock, rating because I'm paranoid


I don't cry. As a solider, an army doctor, I've seen the end of the world. I didn't cry.

But I'm vulnerable, I can't tuck away my emotions like some. I'm so trusting, so ready to put my heart forward, that sometimes it gets broken. I hold it out, but someone hits it out of my hands. It shatters into a thousand pieces, and my eyes tear up.

But surely I don't cry.

I awoke last night the same way I've been for the past week. My pillow is damp with the secrets of my nightmares, and my body is heavy. I don't get up. What's the point?

The clock continued to blink its one thirty at me. I can't sleep anymore. I should get up. But I can't. My hands stiffen around the blanket. I want to escape to somewhere where I don't have to think.

"Sherlock, dear," Ms. Hudson's voice wafted into my thoughts. "don't push yourself too hard. You've got to take care of yourself," the traces of her hands ghosted across my face. "You're not a robot."

I shut my eyes tightly. _He sure acted like it sometimes.__  
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I sat up slowly, my eyes drifting over to the mirror in my room. I haven't shaven in a while. _Sherlock rarely shaved. His face was naturally hairless. _I balled my hands into weak fists. _Everything reminds me of him. _My eyes wandered back up to the mirror, staring at their own reflection. They looked so glass, so empty.

"Sherlock," my own voice found its way from my memories. I hated the sound. "You have to eat _something_. It's been days."

I stumbled to my feet limply, grabbing my cane. Since the incident, my limp had come back, stronger than ever. I breathed out, looking down at the oversized shirt I wore. I felt like if my mind wasn't empty, I would've cried. It smelled like him. I should wear my own clothes. But I couldn't bring myself to change.

I pushed through the door and into the main room of my apartment. I've been staying here, with a "friend." He's been out of town, but he's been paying his share of the rent nonetheless. _Pity? Sympathy?_

I hobbled into the kitchen and I sat down at the table. It was dark outside, a quiet city I didn't know. The kitchen was dark, too dark to see much.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade shook his head in my memory. "You'll ruin your eyes if you read in the dark, Sherlock. Turn on a light or call it a night already."

Before my brain was informed, my finger had found the light switch and proceeded to turn it on. I stood again, patiently making my way over to the cabinet. I pulled out a week old loaf of bread and a knife, cutting myself a piece absentmindely. With a shaking hand I brought it up to my mouth. I felt hungry, I felt sick.

I forced myself to take a bite. Another one. Keep going. The next minute my head was over the sink as I hacked it back up. My arms collapsed in time with my knees and I sank to the floor.

I wiped the puke from my chapped lips with the back of my hand, breathing heavily. I leaned my head against the counter. I closed my eyes, still coughing a little.

"Why did you leave me...?"

"I'm sorry, John," my head snapped up, my eyes wide open. Was this a nutrient-deprived hallucination? No, it had to be real. It had to be. Sherlock stood before me, in his long coat and scarf, like nothing happened. "you understand, right?"

His voice was even softer than I remembered. The words caressed my inner soul, and I lost all purpose. There was only one thing in my mind. Sherlock. Sherlock was here.

"Of course!" I blurted out. My words came out without thought or reason. I was jut filled with relief. "I forgive you! A thousand times! Just don't leave again!" I stood and embraced him tightly. Hesitantly he wrapped is arms around me as well. He was warm and strong and...alive. So beautifully alive.

I clutched to his coat. He formulated the words in his head. I laughed an airy, shaky laugh. He was never good at saying what he felt. "I won't leave again, John. I'm sorry. You know I care too much about you. It broke my heart to be away. The thought of putting you through that..."

"It's okay," my voice cracked, just as I tried to be strong. But I didn't have to be. I was allowed this one precious moment of weakness. I buried my face in his shoulder, breathing him in. "it's okay..."

Suddenly, I was jolted awake by the beep of the clock, reading promptly seven. It was a dream...I had fallen asleep. I still needed a crutch to stand. I still wasn't going to be able to eat. And Sherlock was still dead.

I surely didn't cry. I knew this, I knew I never cried.

But as I gripped his shirt to my face and pulled my knees to my chest, I learned something new about myself.


End file.
